I’m beginning to have my doubts. Last night, E-- invited me over for Beef Wellington and green bean casserole. This was the exact dish her mother served on Christmas. I’ll never forget it because that’s the day I went Bo Duking across the hood of E--’s car with the stolen casserole dish in my hand- the same one E-- used last night.

I was only three or four bites into the meal when she asked me how everything tasted. “Delicious,” I told her.

“Better than my mother’s?”

And there it was. E-- behind the curtain. Sad and sunken E-- desperate for my approval. How had I not noticed this before?